


Horror Vacui

by Anonanonsir



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:24:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonanonsir/pseuds/Anonanonsir
Summary: A stormtrooper taken prisoner during the fight on Takodana remembers the friends he lost on Starkiller. Story told through fragmented memories and flashbacks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Content Advisory: swearing, violence, death, drug use, implied torture**

 

* * *

One. Nine. Two. Six.

The scratched numbers were clumsy and malformed; he used his left hand. The walls within arms reach were covered in similar scrawled, four digit sets, frequently repeated, the whisper rasp of stone on concrete chipping away at the silence within the small cell as he retraced the figures with weak, jerky movements, making the lines longer, bolder. One. Nine. Two. Six.

It was important. The numbers were important. The numbers helped. Things slipped through the cracks in his head like water through a sieve. But the numbers helped him to focus. It was simple, repetitive, physical. And it made them real. It made them exist somewhere outside of his head. It was important. Important that they exist somewhere.

The soft scratching slowed, then ceased entirely as he let his hand drop to his side. His half closed eyes were clouded with fever and a trickle of blood oozed from one corner of his swollen mouth. He blinked, slowly, heavily, the numbers on the wall swimming in and out of focus. The coolness of the concrete burned against his skin, the whole room was burning, the dirty grey of the walls superheating to white. But it was a cold white. Sterile. It reminded him of the barracks room from the training facility.

On the floor, several feet away was a case which had not been there before. It had six slots, and had once held six bottles of highly dubious provenance and even higher proof. He did not wonder at its presence. Five-Oh had smuggled it in the night before.

It was Graduation Day and their entire class was confined to barracks because someone from Third had set off explosives in the middle of the quad. There was a great crater in the ground there now and just the sight of it gave them all an inordinate amount of pleasure so that they scarcely minded being stuck inside. They were all still running high on the elation and relief at having passed their final trials. They were Stormtroopers.

Despite their confinement, they managed to put the case of alcohol Five-Oh had acquired to good use. It tasted like poison and burned like a blaster bolt going down your throat, but none of them cared. They had a bottle each and they drank it as if it were water. It was a miracle none of them died, but for that night at least, they felt invincible.

They drank and swapped stories until well past Light's Out, though for once no one came by to enforce it. They talked about the Trials, their triumphs and their terrifying near defeats. Dubs gave her impression of the colonel's speech and Thirteen laughed so hard he snorted his drink and spent the next several moments doubled over in agony.

At some point during the night someone suggested sabacc. Strip sabacc since none of them had any money. Thirteen was losing as usual. He was down to his last piece of clothing when Niner offered him an alternative.

"No one wants to look at your scrawny ass, Thirteen. I have a better idea."

"A better idea," Dubs snorted. "That's what he said on that urban sim run last month."

Zero laughed. "Those are going to be Niner's last words: 'I have a better idea!"

"Nah, I mean it," Niner insisted, "We should have him do something. A dare. Something against the rules."

"Like what?"

"Fuck's sake, just deal him out," said Twenty-Six, and Thirteen cast her a grateful glance. But Niner ignored her.

"Like..." He grinned suddenly. "C'mere." He leaned over and Thirteen was obliged to do the same, only to pull back sharply at the whispered suggestion.

Niner laughed at the startled flush suffusing his friend's face. "Those are my terms."

Thirteen was drunk. He'd never have had the nerve to do it otherwise. He took a fortifying swallow and nearly choked on it. Then, before he could think better of it, before he could _think_ at all, he leaned over and kissed Tweny-Six swiftly and awkwardly on the cheek. The next thing he knew he was flat on his back on the floor and Twenty-Six was glaring down at him, massaging her knuckles. He tried to sit up, but the room seemed to pitch to one side and he fell back.

Zero and Niner were laughing so hard no sounds were coming out. Dubs slabbed Zero on the back in a vague, drunken attempt to help him breathe while Five-Oh pushed to his feet to help Thirteen, only to collapse back, missing his chair and falling flat on his ass, drawing a crowing laugh from Twenty-Six.

Thirteen gave up trying to rise. He let his head fall back against the floor. It hurt to laugh, but he couldn't help it, and he didn't want to. He didn't think he'd laughed this much or this hard in his entire eighteen years. And it wasn't just the drink, after the tension of the past few weeks they were all desperate for some kind of release. And so they drank until they could barely stand and laughed until it hurt, and then, out of nowhere, Thirteen realized he was a hair's breadth away from sobbing.

"Get up, idiot."

He looked up to see Twenty-Six standing over him, and the moment - whatever it was - passed. She took his hand and pulled him back into his chair. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his face nearly as scarlet as the trickle of blood running from his nose.

"Idiot," she repeated mildly, shaking her head.


	2. Chapter 2

The laughter died away and the room faded until it was only his small cell. His face still hurt, and for several disoriented moments he imagined the pain was from Twenty-Six' fist. But it was his jaw, not his nose which ached so badly. There was a reason for that. Thirteen shook his head, flinching away from the thought. He didn't want to remember. His hands found the numbers on the wall, he tried to trace them, his movements twitchy and distracted, but it was too late. The memories slipped in through the cracks, fragmented and violent: the taste of sharp metal in his mouth, clawing hands, the weight on his chest...

Thirteen gave a convulsive shudder, pressing his face into the wall. It was hot. Why was it so hot?

"Fuck, it's hot." It was his thought, but it was Zero speaking, his voice amplified by the comm in his helmet, earning him a sharp reprimand from the lieutenant. Thirteen's visor was starting to cloud and he longed to pull off his own helmet to wipe his face, but he didn't dare. They were nearly to the objective.

He remembered crouching at the edge of the trees, the unbearable stillness and waiting, and yet dreading the order to advance. The village had looked peaceful, as if it were asleep in the shimmering midday heat, but the moment they broke cover it erupted like a swarm of wasps.

The open ground before the village couldn't have been more than fifty yards, but it seemed to stretch endlessly. They had grown accustomed to wearing the signature white armor since Graduation, but this was their first time in action and Thirteen remembered how impossibly heavy and awkward it had suddenly felt, how stifling the helmets were, how the visor fogged up if you didn't have it on just right. He struggled gracelessly and half blind through the blaster fire, but he kept moving forward, kept firing. He ought to have been terrified, but all he could think of was keeping pace with Twenty-Six, just ahead of him. He was aware of figures falling to either side, of cries coming across the comms, of the storm of energy bolts streaking past them, but none of it reached him. None of it felt quite real.

They reached the edge of town, flinging themselves down and pressing tight against the mud walls of the buildings. Five-Oh had taken a hit, but he was alive. They left him there in cover, splitting into pairs and clearing the buildings one by one. There was something steady and methodical about it, in the midst of complete chaos, which Thirteen found reassuring.

They had just cleared their second, and Thirteen was crossing the street towards the third when Twenty-Six pulled him back hard, an inch ahead of a sniper's bolt. He fell back, flattening himself against the wall, his detachment shattering in an instant. It was like waking into a nightmare. He wanted to run, to crawl back into the building they'd just cleared, behind the solid, safe walls, but Twenty-Six was saying something to him, her voice sharp and familiar, filling his helmet. "Building across the square. Top floor. Middle window. I'll cover you." And then she was firing.

Thirteen didn't have time wonder if he was shaking too badly to hit the mark. He forced out his breath, pulling the stock of his rifle tight into his shoulder, and stepped away from the wall. His clouded sights found the building, found the window, found the shadow behind it and in the space between heartbeats he pulled the trigger. He saw a muzzle flash from the window and for a moment the whole world lit up with pain and bright white light and then it went dark.

He was lying in the street, Twenty-Six was leaning over him and had pulled off his helmet. She was punching his shoulder and shouting that he'd scared the living shit out of her.

"Did I hit him?" he asked, still half dazed.

"The sniper? Yeah." She shook her head. "You're one lucky son of a bitch. Tore up the whole side of your helmet."

"Think he tore up my head," Thirteen groaned, making an attempt to sit up.

"You'll live. Fucked up the side of your face, though."

Before Thirteen could respond, the lieutenant's voice came over their comms declaring the village was clear.

"Thank fuck," muttered Twenty-Six as Thirteen let himself sag back to the ground. Despite the pain in his head, he was grinning with relief.

After a brief hesitation, Twenty-Six pulled off her own helmet and dragged in a great lungful of air. She closed her eyes and just for a moment was perfectly still. Then she straightened, flicked a faint, conspiratorial smile at Thirteen before pulling on her helmet once more. "C'mon," she said, offering him a hand. "Wipe that stupid grin off your face and let's find the others."

**x**

They had taken the village and that with only a handful wounded and one dead. Not bad for a green platoon, their sergeant had said. One dead was nothing. One dead was a walkover.

One dead was Two-Oh-Seven-One. Thirteen stood staring down at the charred hole in his friend's breastplate. He kept expecting him to sit up. This was their first combat; they'd been working, training for this every day of their short eighteen years. Seventy-One hadn't even made it across the open ground, hadn't fired a shot.

But none of them wanted to think about that. Not even Thirteen, who always thought too much. It was their first combat, their first victory, and they had survived, they had won. It was a high like nothing else. It was electrifying, and everything he touched, everything he saw or heard was sharp and vivid and glorious. He wanted to tear off the heavy, awkward armor and feel his limbs moving freely, he wanted to run, he wanted to feel his lungs burning and his heart pounding, he wanted to feel the air and the sun on his face.

But such indulgence was unthinkable, and he stayed where he was, with the others, with Twenty-Six, joking and laughing as if he'd had too much to drink. He felt absurdly happy.


	3. Chapter 3

Thirteen was shivering. After the summer heat of the village, the cell felt ice cold. A trickle of sweat ran down his face and he tried to curl tighter into the corner, but the concrete walls which had burned such a short while before were now cold and clammy, leeching the warmth from his bones.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Dubs' voice snapped in his head. He shut his eyes and could see her again. They stood there, their blasters still warm in their hands, and on the ground between them a dozen dead civilians, and neither of them felt anything.

"Fucking idiot. The fuck did you have to open your mouth for?"

His helmet hid his face and only his awkward stillness betrayed him. He did as he'd been told. He'd followed orders. They couldn't punish him for following orders.

He'd questioned orders.

But he hadn't! He'd only... They hadn't been combatants. They'd been hiding in the temple during the fight. The CO had come up late. Thirteen had only thought...

Pain flared in his side, knifing straight through to his back and for a moment reality, the cell, the numbers on the wall flickered into sharp relief. But the memory still lingered, like a slick of oil on water. Stupid. Stupid mistake. He was always making mistakes. Always making stupid mistakes.

He could feel himself slipping, feel everything slowly, helplessly splintering apart again. It hurt. Everything was glaring light and black shadows. They towered over him, dizzy, lunging, snarling. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. One of them pressed something into his hands. A blaster. And when he looked down he saw his hands were small, child's hands. The blaster was heavy, unwieldy, almost as big as himself. He was soaking wet, freezing, water running down his face. The shadows were drawing in, pressing closer. There was something with them, inside them. Something faceless and bound. He pulled the trigger.

The shot scattered the shadows, flushing them like a flock of carrion crows, and leaving him in the cold light of the cell, shivering, his face wet with tears.

He had followed orders. He always followed orders. The lieutenant had thought that was enough, but the CO wanted an example made and once they returned to the ship, Thirteen had been sent for reconditioning.

He had no clear memory of what happened there, only fragments, perhaps that was by design, or perhaps he had simply blocked them out. But he remembered the empty, disconnected feeling afterward, the horrible sense of having been hollowed out. He barely spoke for days.

Twenty-Six watched him with concern, every time he glanced up her eyes were on him, but apart from asking once if he was alright - and receiving a vague affirmative - there was nothing she could say. Neither of them had the right words.

It was shortly after this that the nightmares began again. He hadn't been troubled by them for years, not since he was small and used to slip into Twenty-Six's bunk whenever he was too frightened to sleep. He'd always felt safe with her, even when they were children. But he had grown beyond the threshold where that sort of thing was acceptable, and getting into bed with someone meant something rather different now.

Still, he remembered one night, a week, maybe two after he'd returned from reconditioning. He remembered waking abruptly, disoriented in the pitch dark of the barracks room, remembered the paralyzing stillness, not daring to breathe as the horror of the dream slowly faded, until he was sure it wasn't real.

No one was cursing him to shut up, and he thought that for once he had managed to wake only himself, but then in the darkness nearby, he heard Twenty-Six stir and sit up. There was a light touch on his arm, nudging him to move over, and then the soft wave of cool air as she lifted the covers and slipped in beside him. She did not say anything, but he could feel the warmth and pressure of her back against his and for the first time in weeks, he felt safe. He shut his eyes, feeling the tension slowly drain from him, and for that night at least, he slept soundly.

**x**

He tried to hold onto the memory, to the warmth of it, but he couldn't hold things in his head anymore. It slipped through the cracks like smoke and he was alone in his cell once more, with nothing but hard concrete at his back.

Thirteen shut his eyes, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. His world had been a small one, it was no Hosnian Prime - it wasn't even a concrete place, he'd never known 'home' in the geographic sense - but it was all he had. And it was gone. He turned his face into the wall, his thin shoulders shuddering silently, too afraid to cry out, his chest heaving with each strangled sob, thrusting angrily against broken ribs. He uncurled his right hand, its nail beds purple and raw, his swollen finger tips finding the numbers on the wall through the blur of tears. He should have been there. He should have been there with them.


	4. Chapter 4

At some point he lost consciousness. Exhaustion could be a mercy sometimes.

A metallic slam from somewhere down the corridor woke him, then another slam and raised voices, an argument.

"You fucking flyboys," it sounded like Five-Oh's voice. "Anyone'd think you had orange on under those jumpsuits!"

It was their first night of leave in months and they'd made the mistake of drinking at one of the TIE pilots' watering holes. And though it was just the two of them, Five-Oh had lost no time in picking a fight.

Thirteen sighed, set down his drink and got up from the bar. He didn't see who threw the first punch, but there were three of them on Five-Oh almost immediately. Thirteen took one down with a swift jab to the lower back, kicking out his knees before a blow to the jaw sent him reeling. He staggered back, shoving a nearby pilot out of his seat and snatching it up.

"Get down!"

Five-Oh hit the floor and Thirteen flung the bar stool into the space his head had been a moment ago. It didn't do any serious damage, but it scattered them, knocking them apart a few steps and that was all Thirteen needed. He dived into their open ranks, planting himself at Five-Oh's back.

"What the fuck was that?" his friend demanded, laughing, but neither of them had any breath for talking after that. It was a brief scrap, but glorious while it lasted, and they gave as good as they got before the odds finally buried them.

Thirteen hit the ground like a sack of stones, laid out by a blow sliding under his guard. A kick to the head kept him down, then one to the stomach, the ribs, the back. He heard Five-Oh cry out, but every time he tried to rise he was kicked back down.

It would have gone badly for them, if someone hadn't broken things up. Thirteen was only aware that the kicking had stopped, and of being forcibly dragged to the door and shoved into the street.

"You fight like you fly, you fucking cowards!" Five-Oh shouted after them, but Thirteen just collapsed to his knees and retched the contents of his stomach into the street.

"Hey," Five-Oh nudged him with his boot. "You alright?"

"Pfft. You should see the other guy," Thirteen muttered, trying unsuccessfully to get to his feet.

Five-Oh laughed, "Easy there, chief." He took his friend's arm and helped him up, slipping an arm round his waist to steady him. "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink."

"Not here," mumbled Thirteen, leaning heavily against the other trooper.

Five-Oh gave a soft snort. "Hell no."

They found a seedy, but blessedly non-partisan club in the next district. Five-Oh began flirting almost immediately with the boy behind the bar and Thirteen was all but forgotten. He didn't mind; they had a one night pass, one night to talk to people without a mask on, to eat food which didn't taste like shit, to drink too much, talk too loud, to flirt - hell even fuck if they got lucky. He wouldn't begrudge his friend a bit of fun.

He ordered something strong, drained it, ordered a second then a third, nursing the familiar, reckless hunger which gnawed inside his chest. The music was good - or at least he liked it, the way it bristled up, rhythmic and aggressive, half deafening, the beat resonating deep in his chest like a second heart. It was cathartic somehow.

He grinned suddenly, recalling the time Zero had hacked the comm system and blasted music in to their helmets during a training run. The sergeant had smoked the hell out of them for that.

"I mean, I throw a pretty mean punch," Five-Oh was regaling the bartender, "But Thirteen here, he throws a mean bar stool."

Thirteen's smile went crooked and he shook his head. "Don't worry," he reassured the boy, "I won't be demonstrating."

It was several drinks later when he noticed the boy slide a small packet of tablets across the bar to Five-Oh. His friend downed half of them, then nudged Thirteen and handed him the rest. Thirteen took them, regarding the small, white capsules curiously. He was on the point of asking what they were when he realized he didn't care. He tossed them back with the rest of his drink. He didn't want to be wise. Not that night.

"I don't suppose you're allowed to dance on duty?" Five-Oh asked the boy as the music tempo downshifted to something slow and soft. "Ah well. I suppose I'll have to make due with Thirteen. C'mon-"

"What?" Thirteen laughed and tried to protest, but Five-Oh dragged him off the stool and out into the middle of the floor. He was starting to feel the effects of the tablets. It felt like a shot of adrenaline, but without the stomach dropping kick. It felt _good_.

Still laughing, he tried to pull back. "I can't dance."

"Neither can I," grinned Five-Oh, grabbing both his hands. But Five-Oh had an aggressive grace in all his movements, while, even sober, Thirteen moved as though he were still growing into his arms and legs. "C'mon!"

He pulled Thirteen forward, dropping one arm to his waist and twisting them ostentatiously one way, then another with Thirteen staggering after him like an ungainly puppet. Neither of them could stop laughing.

"You're fucking _terrible_!" Five-Oh cried as Thirteen lost his footing and nearly dragged them both to the floor.

"Fuck you!"

"Well, I was kind of hoping that kid at the bar would. But if you're offering..."

Thirteen tried to shove him and somehow ended up flat on the floor, and Five-Oh nearly collapsed on top of him, laughing helplessly. "C'mon," he gasped, hauling Thirteen to his feet. "Let's get you out of here before you hurt someone."

True to his word, Five-Oh paid for the drinks, making a grand show of it, and Thirteen heard him ask the boy what time he got off. Whatever the answer was, it must have been favorable because his friend was grinning like an idiot when they left.

Outside, the city seemed markedly different from what it had been a mere hour ago; everything they saw struck them as breathtaking or absurdly funny and for a while they simply wandered around, pointing and gawping and laughing. Thirteen's headache had gone, and his back scarcely hurt at all.

"Oh. _Oh._ Thirteen!" Five-Oh stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed his friend's arm.

He was pointing at the front of a club just a few dozen yards ahead, a luxury sport airspeeder had pulled up outside and an officer - high ranking navy by the look of him - climbed out.

"I've always wanted to fly one of those! C'mon!"

He lurched forward, but Thirteen pulled him back, laughing in disbelief. "What - _steal_ it?"

"Well, more like... borrow? _Come on!_ "

He dived forward and Thirteen sprinted after him, thrilling to the unfamiliar, wild excitement coursing through him. They reached the speeder just as one of the club staff was emerging to pull it around. Thirteen took a running jump and vaulted into the open passenger side while Five-Oh grabbed the startled valet, yanked him down and climbed into the control seat.

He punched the throttle and launched them forward, nearly scraping the neighboring building as they spun into traffic, and with a triumphant whoop sent them hurtling down the street.

"Shit - oh shit, he saw us!" Thirteen - who had risked a glance back - cried.

"Who?"

"The officer!"

"Oh _shit_!"

It wasn't long before there were flashing lights behind them and a voice coming over the intercom demanding they pull over.

Thirteen stared at the speaker in horror. "Shit - shit, what do we do? Five-Oh!"

But Five-Oh simply switched the comm off, punched several buttons and moment later music was blaring from the speakers. He turned to Thirteen with a grin, laughing as his friend instinctively grabbed hold of something, - Thirteen knew what that look meant - and plunged them into a nose dive.

"Holy _fuck_! What was that?" Thirteen cried, scrabbling for purchase on the inside of the speeder as Five-Oh skidded in and out of side streets. " _Holy shit_!" He was almost laughing now, as each near miss, each time they didn't crash brought a rush of relief and exhilaration.

Five-Oh let out an exultant cry as he dived into a nest of close crowding buildings. "Let's see those bastards follow us here!"

It had begun to rain and, though they hardly felt it, it made visibility even worse, a fact not helped by the lack of lighting in the half-abandoned sector they found themselves in as they sped along, hugging the ground.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Thirteen cried as Five-Oh switched off their lights.

"They won't be able to see us like this!" Five-Oh sounded giddy, triumphant.

" _We_ cant' see!" Thirteen was fumbling over the control panel, trying to find the lights and, failing that, wrenching back the throttle. "Fucking shit, slow down! Shit!"

"Would you stop that," Five-Oh tried to shove him away from the panel. "Don't know what you're so worried about. You can see better without the-"

They never saw what they hit. Thirteen came to sprawled up against the wall of a building. Everything was out of focus, it hurt to blink, it hurt to breathe. He tried to sit up and nearly lost consciousness again. The pain was like an axe burying itself in the side of his skull. He fell back, gasping and tried to roll over. He made it onto his stomach, then to his knees, grinding his fingers into the dirt as the world spun and heaved under him.

"Five-Oh?" Hell, it hurt to talk. "Five-Oh!"

A groan came from the darkness nearby and Thirteen crawled towards it. "Five-Oh?"

He found the other trooper, but it was too dark to make out more than his shape. "Five-Oh. Are you-"

The speeder exploded. Thirteen threw himself across his friend, pressing himself flat as the deafening blast reverberated off the surrounding buildings.

Dazed, Thirteen pushed himself off of Five-Oh and then, slowly and unsteadily got to his feet. Five-Oh was struggling to rise as well and for a moment they both stood there, swaying in the light of the burning speeder. Five-Oh was staring at the flames, but Thirteen was staring at his friend's arm.

"Is - is your arm supposed to do that?" the words were slow and thick in his mouth, slurring together.

Five-Oh stared at him, and then after a long pause blinked down at his left arm. "Oh. Oh, shit," he murmured and then, without warning, he began to laugh, a high, thin, shaky sound. He collapsed against Thirteen, leaning his head on his shoulder, "Let's... let's not do that again."


	5. Chapter 5

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, drawing nearer and Thirteen hated himself for the way he shrank back into the corner of the cell, hated himself for the overwhelming panic, the nausea which washed over him in waves with each clipped step. Closer and closer, it was a long hallway. Thirteen shut his eyes.

The air shimmered with heat, even under the trees. He moved slowly, scanning the forest ahead of them. Suddenly he stopped, holding up his hand. The others halted as one, staying low and under cover. Something wasn't right. Thirteen pulled off his helmet - sometimes the HUD only got in the way - and stared hard at the wall of shadow which was the beginning of an evergreen forest fifty yards ahead.

"One-Eight-One-Three-" Thirteen could hear the disapproval in the young lieutenant's voice and sighed. He'd just been rotated into their unit, fresh out of the box from the academy. He still smelled like boot black and new clothes. "What do you think you're doing?" He had grown tired of waiting and stood, "I asked you a question, trooper."

Thirteen turned sharply then. _Get down_ \- but he never got the words out. The lieutenant's body jerked suddenly and he fell, a smoking hold in the center of his helmet.

"Incoming!" Dubs shouted as the telltale rush of air filled their ears, and then the whole world flew to pieces. Thirteen flattened himself against the ground, pressing himself into it as it heaved and shuddered like a living thing. Trees exploded above them, ripped through by artillery and hurled to the ground, their crashes drowned by the great, rupturing blasts of the rockets. All around them the air was burning, full of shrapnel and bursts of searing, white light, huge geysers of earth heaving skywards.

Thirteen managed to get his helmet back on. There were voices on the comms, Twenty-Six and Tree-Four, for a moment, and then Five-Oh's scream flooded the channel. Another shell hit close by, showering Thirteen with debris and he could only lay there, pressing his face into the dirt, his friend's voice screaming into his ear, the raw pain and terror of it filling his helmet.

"Five-Oh!" Twenty-Six somehow made herself heard, "Thirteen, have you got eyes on Five-Oh?"

"I'm on it," Thirteen heard himself saying. His heart was racing and his breath coming in shallow, jumpy gasps; in his ear he could still hear Five-Oh, but he was growing quieter now. Thirteen did not know if that was good or bad. He tried to focus on his friend's voice. Move. He needed to move.

He reached out a hand only to snatch it back as the world in that direction turned molten white. _Fuck!_ He sucked in a breath and tried again, dragging himself hand over hand across the ground towards where he had last seen Five-Oh.

"Talk to me, Zero. How we doing on that airstrike?" Thirteen didn't understand how Twenty-Six could sound so calm.

"Something's scrambling the long distance frequencies, I can't get through!"

"Fucking bastards. Keep trying."

Thirteen rolled into a crater, flattening himself to the opposite side. He shut his eyes, counted out three seconds, and forced himself to climb out. He found Five-Oh at the bottom of the next crater. What was left of him.

"Five-Oh!" He was alive, but Thirteen didn't understand how; his friend had been ripped apart.

"Thirteen? Thirteen - I- I can't-"

"Easy, buddy. I got you." There was blood everywhere. "I've got Five-Oh," he spoke into the comm, "We need med-evac. _Now_."

"We've got no long distance comms, do what you can."

 _Do what you can_.

"My legs - I can't move - "

Thirteen threw himself over Five-Oh as another rocket sent shrapnel and splinters spraying across them.

"Your legs are going to be fine. It's going to be fine. Five-Oh - look at me. Look at me. It's going to be alright."

 _Do what you can_.

He ripped off his pack, fumbling through the aid kit, cursing the brainless fuck who had issued only one roll of bandages. There was so much blood. How the hell was he supposed to stop the bleeding? Syrettes. His fingers were clumsy in his gloves and he tore them off. He grabbed the painkiller syrettes. Two or three? What was the max dose? How many were too many?

He realized then, as he looked down at Five-Oh, that it didn't matter. That even if they had a med team there now, his friend was still going to die.

"Thirteen..." His friend's voice was small, frightened, and that scared Thirteen more all the rockets crashing around them. He'd never seen him like this, not even when they were children. Five-Oh wasn't scared of anything. He jabbed in the syrettes. One. Two. "I'm cold."

Thirteen gave him the third syrette. "I know." The visor of his helmet was fogging up and he tore it off. Another close hit, there was a crack above them and as Thirteen dove to cover Five-Oh again, something struck his back, glancing off his armor, but with such force that it drove the breath from his body, flattening him against Five-Oh.

And then there was silence. Thirteen waited, holding Five-Oh tightly. One second. Two. Ten. Still nothing. It didn't feel like silence, not the normal kind. It felt as though he'd gone deaf.

There were branches all around them. A tree must have come down. If it weren't for the depth of the crater, they would have been crushed. Slowly Thirteen pulled away from Five-Oh, sucking air into his lungs.

"Five-Oh? Five-Oh!"

 _No_.

He pulled off his friend's helmet. The face beneath was bloodless and drawn, the eyes blank.

 _No_.

He felt for a pulse.


	6. Chapter 6

Tears spilled down Thirteen's cheeks.

From the other side of the cell, Five-Oh frowned at him. He'd left him there, in that hole. He'd left him alone. He'd left him behind.

 _You were dead_.

Five-Oh only stared back at him, frowning and silent, and for a moment Thirteen could see the crater again, Resistance swarming over it, he imagined them finding Five-Oh, taking him prisoner, imagined them doing to him what they'd done to Thirteen.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!_

But Five-Oh's eyes had turned blank and lifeless, the way they'd looked when Thirteen had removed his helmet that last time.

_No._

Thirteen choked back a sob. If he had got there faster. If he had done more, if he had done... _something_. If he hadn't given that last syrette. But there was so much blood. It happened so fast...

Still, he had left him there. He'd been ordered to. He hadn't had a choice. But there had been a part of him that had been relieved, that had balked at the heavy fire and the distance to their fallback position and the weight of his friend's body. And not for the first time he wondered if that order wasn't just covering his own cowardice.

But Thirteen wasn't a coward. Or he hadn't been. Not then. Now was another matter. Now… He felt anger and revulsion rise in his throat like bile. Now he was filth. Now he was nothing. But back on the outpost planet he'd still been brave.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Five-Oh was gone. The fever was getting worse. A trickle of sweat ran down his face and he pulled off his helmet.

"Uniform violation," Dubs called out, but she was already removing her own. Thirteen tore the stock from his neck and flung it down with relief. The air felt good on his face.

He saw the lieutenant pause, and Thirteen thought he looked torn between rebuking them and following their example. In the end he did neither. He was a decent sort, for only having been with them a few weeks. Better than the few they'd had before him, for all his inexperience. He listened to his non-coms and he understood the value of cutting a trail. It might not have sounded like much, but it made a world of difference.

Their platoon had been sent ahead and tasked with holding a small, but strategic point until a larger force could be brought up. They'd been given supplies for five days and assured that reinforcements were only a couple days behind. Even their green-as-grass lieutenant hadn't trusted that and they'd done their best to ration the supplies, but it had now been ten days, and more distressing than the lack of food was their steadily decreasing supply of ammunition. And the rebel attacks were only growing more aggressive. They'd repelled one the night before, and another just that morning.

Thirteen peered out from cover. He could see movement in the trees a little ways off, but it was too far to waste charges on.

"You got any spare energy cartridges?" asked Twenty-Six, sinking down next to him and handing him her canteen, "Trade you."

Thirteen unclipped one of his last cartridges and handed it over, before taking a gulp of the warm, flat tasting water. "How are you for plasma?" he asked, handing it back.

Twenty-Six snorted. "I've got plasma coming out my ears," she said and waved off the canteen. "Finish it."

"Fucking energy clips from the last resupply are so old they're starting to bleed. Speaking of..." She glanced pointedly at the dried blood on his armor. "Yours?"

Thirteen's face clouded and he shook his head. "Lucky - Seventy-Seven," he corrected himself, the nickname seemed perverse now. She'd been one of the new kids. Almost as green as the lieutenant. He opened his mouth, shut it again, the scene from the night before replaying itself in his head.

"Don't," Twenty-Six said suddenly, forcefully, reading his thoughts. He looked up, searching her face for a moment, then he nodded and reached for his helmet.

Instead of the viewscreen display, however, the wall of his cell stared back at him, bleary and indistinct. He shivered, which made no sense, he remembered the heat, the sun beating down, the rocks radiating like an oven, remembered the damp, suffocating air in his helmet, the hot, leaden weight of his own armor. But the cell felt as cold as Starkiller.

Thirteen raised a hand to his neck, tracing the long, discolored scar of a blaster burn. He knew he'd gotten it at that crossroads, though he had no memory of it. He remembered very little of that last fight. It was as if linear time ceased to exist and he had only a collective sense of it: the heat, the heavy fire, and the fierce, inexplicable joy he had felt. The realization that despite fairly certain death there was no place in the galaxy he would rather have been than right there at that moment.

He remembered the sound clearly enough, though, low and deceptively soft. "Mortar!" Niner's voice screamed into the comm and, curled in the corner of his cell, Thirteen felt his whole body jerk violently. Suddenly the memory was no longer vague, but sharp and hard as glass.

For an instant the world was reduced to sound and light and raw, terrifying force, and then there was nothing, no sound, no light, no air. He felt the impact as the blast flung him against the rock, felt something inside him crack.

He was lying on his stomach when the air came rushing back into his lungs with a pain like a blade between his ribs. He struggled to rise. He needed to find Twenty-Six, needed to find his rifle. He tried to call out, but his voice made no sound. All he could hear was the ringing whine inside his own skull and all he could see was dust and the shattered remnants of his visor.

And then from within the cloud he saw the bright, flickering bursts of blaster fire. He staggered. It didn't hurt, not at first, there was only the terrible sense that something was wrong as each bolt punched through his body. His side. His chest. His shoulder.

He hit the ground and this time there was nothing shielding him from the pain. His vision whited out and he tried to scream but all that he had breath for was a feeble cry. He gasped, but it didn't help. He couldn't get air and at every breath it felt as though something in his chest were ripping apart.

It had been bright afternoon a moment ago, but now the sky was darkening and the temperature was dropping like a stone. Panic washed over him and he struggled to sit up - he needed to find the others, he needed to find Twenty-Six - but his limbs didn't respond. He could feel something thick and warm collecting in the back of his throat and he tasted copper.

"Thirteen!" Twenty-Six's voice sounded strange and far away, but he'd have known it anywhere. She was alive. He let his eyes slip shut. She was alright. Everything would be alright. Twenty-Six would know what to do. She always did. He could hear shouts, distant and indistinct, and then, just as he slipped from consciousness, the roar of a TIE fighter engine overhead.


	7. Chapter 7

The sound of engines did not fade, even as his recollection did. With his head resting against the concrete wall, he could feel it resonating, low and soft. In his mind the sound seemed to grow, as if another had started up, and another. X-wings, he thought. A bombing run.

He'd given them enough information for several. Or at least they'd let him believe that he had.

His eyes drifted over the blurry smear of writing on the walls until one of the sets swam into focus. One-Eight-One-Three. His number. He stared at it for a long moment, and then his fingers found the piece of stone and with a soft rasp he struck it through, a faint glow of anger flickering to life in his chest. He scratched another line through it, and another, again and again. The numbers were no longer distinguishable, but he kept scraping. His number didn't belong there. Traitors didn't belong there.

Other words filled his head, other names for what he was. Their words. They'd put them there. He could hear the voices. That's all they had ever been, voices. Voices and fists and sharp-mouthed metal. They had got inside his head.

It hadn't been hard. Not after the news of Starkiller. He remembered them telling him, remembered it like a physical blow, like a breached airlock, as if the sudden void had ripped out everything inside him and made him as empty as itself. He had been hollowed out, collapsing in on himself and they had filled him, they had put their thoughts in his head, their words in his mouth. And in the end he couldn't be certain if they had broken him or if he'd given the information willingly.

The four numbers were nothing but a chalky smudge on the wall. He tried to scrape harder, heedless of his nails slipping and tearing against the rough concrete. He could taste blood in his mouth, blood and words filling his mouth and running out, and a voice coming from his throat which didn't – couldn't – belong to him.

He'd given them everything. Most of it worthless, but some of it... Nauseau hit him like a wall and he curled over, his stomach heaving as if he could retch up the memory itself. The spasm sent pain knifing through his side and his vision flickered, and for one blessed moment everything went dark.

**x**

"Hey, stranger." Thirteen's eyes blinked open and he turned his head. Twenty-Six was standing over him, her left arm in a sling. "Welcome back."

He smiled sleepily. "Did I go somewhere?" he asked in a hoarse croak, but his smile was slowly beginning to fade. The sling, the hospital bed, that could only mean - The crossroads. The mortar round. Thirteen's eyes widened and he tried to sit up, but Twenty-Six pushed him back. "Thirteen, it's alright. We - Hey, look at me. _We're alright_. Niner, Dubs, Zero, even a couple of the kids. Even the fucking LT. We made it."

He stared at her in anxious bewilderment. "But we were overrun."

"Ah." Twenty-Six looked suddenly rueful. "I'm afraid we have the boys in black to thank for that timely intervention"

A weak laugh escaped Thirteen. "Five-Oh must be-" he broke off. Five-Oh had been dead for weeks, before they'd even been sent to that crossroads. Thirteen knew that. He knew it better than any of them. But he still caught himself glancing over his shoulder, or looking up expectantly, forgetting that his friend was at the bottom of a ditch in some nameless forest.

Unable to meet Twenty-Six's eyes, Thirteen's gaze settled on the stand beside the bed. On it rested a small, metallic object, a pin of some kind.

"Unit citation," said Twenty-Six, guessing at his question.

Thirteen looked up incredulously, "For getting our asses kicked?"

Twenty-Six laughed. "Something like."

"Doesn't really mean shit," she added, "Not like anyone's ever going to see it. Still..."

Still.

"How bad were you hit?" he asked after a moment, fighting the warm, drowsiness which clouded his head.

"Eh, concussion, internal injuries, and a rather nasty hole in my arm. Through-and-throughs are a bitch. Though I suppose you'd know, you've got three of them."

"Shit...Really?" He tried to tilt his head forward to see, but the movement tugged at something in his shoulder and he gasped in pain.

"Idiot."

Despite the flaring pain, Thirteen smiled, his eyes slipping shut.

"Thought we'd lost you back there," said Twenty-Six after a moment.

Forcing his eyes open, Thirteen blinked, slowly, heavily. She sounded serious, almost diffident. That wasn't like Twenty-Six at all. He frowned, trying to concentrate. There was something he should say. Something important.

"Go to sleep, Thirteen."


	8. Chapter 8

_No._

His eyes flew open, but it was too late. She was gone. Thirteen let his head sink back against the floor and brought a hand up to his eyes, the swollen fingers stinging as they brushed the burning skin. He was always just a little too late.

On the night the prisoner escaped, he'd been on his way to relieve Zero in the hangar. Their lieutenant had caught him on the way. All he'd asked was if the altitude sickness tablets were helping. Thirteen had been a minute, two minutes late. That was all. But that was all it took. Zero took a blast full to the chest. He died on the spot.

There were times when Thirteen was grateful for the helmets they were required to wear. Sometimes you needed a mask. You could fall to pieces behind it and no one would be any the wiser. And you could get on with helping the wounded and the deck crews and a hundred other things.

All the same, it was a relief when anger took over. Anger was easier. Anger was safer. They had no outlet for grief, but anger was another matter. All Thirteen could think of was finding the two fugitives and emptying his blaster clip into the pair of them.

Well, he'd got his chance. Thirteen could feel the thin, unsteady laughter rising in his throat. This wasn't exactly how he'd seen things ending. Takodana should have been a milk run. An easy in-and-out. But everything had gone wrong.

Thirteen tried to sit up, only to fall back with a whimper at the tearing pain in his stomach. It felt as though he'd swallowed shrapnel and it was only getting worse. He dragged in a weak, shaky breath and shut his eyes.

The blow came out of nowhere, a jab, sharp and hard to his stomach. Thirteen cried out, his eyes flying open - he didn't want to remember, didn't want to go back to that room - but he could see only the dark folds of the cloth pulled over his face.

Why protect the bastards who had left him to die? a voice somewhere in the darkness wanted to know. Thirteen felt a sob rise in his throat. Not again. Please not again.

Why protect people who didn't give a shit about him? They were all dead. There was no one left. He was alone. He had nothing to lose. They had left him behind. Dead weight. Useless. Soft. Just give up. It could all be over if he would just give up.

Thirteen tried to cover his ears. It wasn't real. It wasn't happening. But he could feel the cloth pressing over his face, suffocating and coarse, and the voice only grew louder, closer, more insistent, and with it the threat, the constant threat and anticipation of pain. Thirteen was shaking. His insides felt as though someone were shredding them with a knife. They had left him behind. They had left him to die. Alone. No one was coming back. They were gone. There was no one left.

Something between a sob and a scream tore itself from his throat, drowning out even the voice in his head. He was aware of the cell, of where he was. Reality slipped back into focus.

He was crying, his chest heaving painfully with each breath. He tried to curl onto his side, his hands still covering his ears and his eyes tightly shut - though there was nothing to hear and nothing to see - and let the tears slide down his cheeks. It hurt. It hurt so much.

_He wanted to go home._

It was a child's cry, buried beneath so many years of determination and brainwashing that he no longer remembered what or where home had been. But the sense of loss and of longing was the same, and he clung to the sentiment with the same grasping urgency as he had as a child, holding it tight to his chest as his senses faltered and the pain gnawed at his insides. Home. He wanted to go home.


	9. Chapter 9

"Officer on deck!"

Zero, Niner and Thirteen both stiffened reflexively at Dubs' warning. Until they saw who was threading across the canteen towards them.

They'd seen little of Twenty-Six since being posted to Starkiller. The captain had recommended her for additional training, officer track sort of thing, which kept her away from the unit for weeks at a time. They never lost an opportunity to give her a hard time over it.

"Sir!" Niner and Zero greeted her with exaggerated salutes to which Twenty-Six responded with a distinctly less respectful gesture.

"I thought you weren't due back for another week?" laughed Dubs.

Thirteen dragged over another chair and Twenty-Six slid into it.

"I washed out," she said with a careless shrug.

Niner nearly choked on his drink.

"What?" and " _Why?_ " rang out in unison from Zero and Dubs. Thirteen just stared.

"None of your damn business," Twenty-Six retorted, suddenly defensive. "It's bullshit anyway. Getting rotated out every six months? Fuck that. Besides. Someone's got to keep you idiots in line."

"Aaah, admit it, you missed us." Zero grinned.

"Thirteen's been pining." Niner could not resist causing trouble.

"What? No, I-"

"Oh, fuck yes, it's pathetic," added Dubs.

Thirteen's face had gone crimson, right to the tips of his ears. He'd been glad for her. Hell, he'd been _proud_. But he'd have been lying if he said that he hadn't been devastated, that he hadn't selfishly wished she could stay.

But when he looked up, he saw that Twenty-Six already knew all that. The only thing which puzzled her - her wry half-smile seemed to suggest - was why, after 24 years, he was still letting Niner wind him up.

Zero pushed to his feet. "I think this calls for another round."

It was nearly impossible to get drunk on the piss they served in the canteen, but they did their best. Twenty-Six told ghoulish tales about the amount of paperwork which junior officers were required to submit and it was generally agreed by all that she'd made the right decision.

"But just think," countered Dubs, "If you'd just stuck with it, you could be having proper drinks in the officers' mess, and not... " she twirled her glass reflectively. "What _is_ this anyway?"

"Overpriced, is what it is," grumbled Niner.

"D'you remember that stuff Five-Oh scrounged up for Graduation?" asked Zero and there was a collective groan from the other four.

Twenty-Six cursed expressively. "Worst hang-over I have ever had."

"Thirteen, you thought you were dying, remember?" laughed Niner.

"Yeah," added Dubs, "We had a whole plan that if you died, we would bury you in the crater in the quad and blame it on 3rd."

Zero nodded. "Which would _definitely_ have worked."

They all laughed, even Thirteen. Despite that night's near fatal excesses, it was a good memory. They didn't have many like that.

Thirteen realized he was staring at the empty place beside Niner and his eyes dropepd to the drink in his hands. But it was important. Important to remember. If they didn't remember each other, then it was as though they'd never existed. No one else gave a damn.

Twenty-Six grew quiet as well, following his gaze. Then, after a pause, she raised her glass.

"Absent friends."


	10. Chapter 10

He was only half conscious when they came for him. He didn't understand the sound of the door sliding open or the heavy tread of boots. Bleary and disoriented, he tried to push himself up, his mind too clouded with fever to immediately grasp what was happening.

Then they grabbed his arms and his body remembered even if his mind did not. He shrank back, trying to pull away, but he was powerless to resist as they clamped the restraints around his wrists. Thirteen felt the ice cold shock of terror. "No..." he shook his head, pleading, panic catching in his throat. "No, please."

They tried to pull him to his feet, but fear had unstrung his limbs. He was limp, shaking. He begged. "Please. I don't know anything. I don't know anything else. No - _Please_." The litany was second nature now.

They half carried, half dragged him from the cell and along the hallway. There was a lift, another hallway. A door at the end.

Not again. He couldn't go through it again. He had told them everything. He didn't know anything else. He had begun to cry, babbling now, a desperate, incoherent stream of sounds tumbling from his broken mouth. He couldn't do it. Not again. They'd already taken everything. He had nothing left.

The door opened, but instead of the small, colorless room it was filled with light. Thirteen flinched away, it hurt his eyes. Sunlight. He was outside.

He did not know how far or for how long it was before they suddenly stopped, thrusting him to his knees in the dirt. Thirteen crumpled forward with a weak cry, the impact sending waves of pain and nausea through him. A hand on his collar pulled him back. And suddenly he understood.

A weak, gasping laugh escaped Thirteen, and then shattered into a sob of relief as he shut his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. He knew what came next. He'd been on the opposite end of it often enough. He tilted his head back. The sun felt warm on his face.

He felt the hard ring of the blaster muzzle press against the back of his head. Then, soft as a whisper, the click of the safety flicking off, and Thirteen felt himself smile.

He wasn't afraid anymore.


End file.
